


windowsill

by shuofthewind



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:25:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/pseuds/shuofthewind
Summary: Eight weeks, three days. She's going to punch him in his fucking nose.[The fic that fixes the lack of Karen at the end of The Punisher.]





	windowsill

He turns up on a Wednesday.

Frank's missing for eight weeks, after everything. _Eight weeks,_ she thinks. _Three days_. Karen follows up, though Homeland and Dinah Madani have put their pretty booted feet down and disallowed anything from being published. Officially, Frank's dead. Officially, so is Russo. Officially, the CIA comes out clean, or cleaner than it could have. Officially, it's over.

 _Eight weeks, three days_.

Micro is the one to tell her Frank's hanging around. "David," he says, and fidgets a little when she looks right at him, the way that a man who's spent the last year hiding in a basement would fidget when confronted with a journalist. "Yeah, um, Frank's--he said he wanted to figure things out."

Karen doesn't say anything. Her throat is an icicle.

"Yeah," says David, and then steps back away from his door. "You want, um. You want some coffee?"

Karen says _yes_ , and _thank you_ , and compliments the furnishings. It scares the living shit out of David Lieberman. She tries not to smile--with shock, with satisfaction--when she hears him turn the deadbolt behind her after she's left the house.

 _Eight weeks,_ she thinks. _Three days_.

She's gonna break his stupid fucking nose if he pulls this for much longer.

Nine weeks, four days, and she puts the pot of flowers back on her windowsill. They're drooping, she tells herself. They need sunlight, even the thin, sad sort you get in the city in January.

Karen waters them, and waits.

Nine weeks, six days, and it's a Wednesday. She stops to get fresh bread from a baker down the street from the Bulletin, tucks it into her bag and makes sure the .380 is still within easy reach. The subway home is quiet, for once. Someone's gashed a graffiti painting of Daredevil onto the sidewalk, written _No Death No Peace_ beneath it. On the next slab of cement there's the Punisher's skull, sprayed so recently the paint is still slick and wet, running in the freezing rain. She skirts around it and pretends the sick roll to her stomach is from the rattling escalators.

He's waiting at her apartment door.

She's not sure how he managed to get in. He's Frank Castle. He probably came up the back way. He looks....unbruised, she thinks, and shrugs her purse higher over her shoulder. She can tell that much, even with his face cast in shadow by the hood. He stands somewhere between attention and relaxed, hands at his sides but his shoulders tight, and he wets his lips reflexively when she stops just out of reach.

"Hey," she says, when he says nothing.

Frank wets his lips again, and then says, "Hey."

Karen unlocks the door to her apartment, and leaves it open behind her. She's not sure if he'll take her up on it, not until she hears the door shut, quietly. He doesn't lock it. Maybe he wants a quick getaway, she thinks. Or maybe he thinks locking the door will make her uncomfortable.

 _Moron_.

"I only have wine," she says, and doesn't look at him. She can always somehow tell where he is, when he's around. The air moves around him in a way that makes all the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but not in a bad way. "You want any?"

Frank's quiet. He's watching her. Then: "Yeah. Sure."

"My day was shit," she says, and slams the fridge shut again. She has only one clean wine glass, so she gives him that, and then uses a mug for herself. "Lost a lead. Corruption thing with a housing development. Somebody paid somebody."

Frank watches her still. He's tugged the hood off, at least. She's not sure she can remember ever seeing him without some kind of bruise on his face. His hair's grown a little. Her throat closes up, and she has to swallow to get it working again.

"How about you?" she says, and his eyes dart over her shoulder to the cabinet behind her.

"Fine," he says. He wets his lips again. This time, when he looks at her, it's _long_. He draws his eyes over her face and down her arms and legs like he's searching for broken glass. "Karen."

"Could've let me know you were okay," she says, and adds more wine to her mug. "Jesus, Frank."

Frank twists his head, looks at the wall. His eyes get a bit wide when he looks at the flowers.

"You still have 'em," he says.

"Yeah." Karen rests her hands on the counter. "Didn't think they'd finally get you to show up."

"Didn't realize." He wets his lips again. "Didn't see them."

"Hell of a coincidence," she says, and steps out of her shoes. All the fight goes out of her, all at once. "Where've you been this time?"

"Queens," he says. "Mostly. Working." He rolls his shoulders. "Trying to work things out."

Karen sips her wine. He still hasn't touched his.

"David said you came lookin' for me," he says.

"Figured I was sick of waiting." She finishes her wine, and doesn't pour more. "I think he pissed himself."

Frank actually smirks. "You're scary when you wanna be."

She almost shoves him. _You don't get to tease when you've been gone for nine fucking weeks, asshole_. "Whatever."

The smirk fades. He looks at his wine, the glass, the walls. Anywhere but her. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. I, uh. Saw him yesterday. First time in weeks."

She refuses to be jealous. She refuses to think of what Foggy would say, if he were in her head right now.

"He told me I fucked up," he says.

Her heart seizes. "Did something happen?"

"No, Jesus. No." He looks oddly confused about it, too. Like peace weighs as heavy on him as a rocket launcher. "No, just--didn't know what to say. I should've called."

Karen snorts, and then says, "Frank, I never expected you to be the one saying sorry I didn't call."

He snorts too, then. Something cracks at the corner of his mouth that could be a smile. He says, "Yeah, maybe."

"Hey," says Karen, and then puts her mug down, comes around the counter. "Hey," she says again, almost in a warning, and then she lets herself do it, put her arms around his neck. Frank's awkward and stiff, but looser, somehow. He curls one arm around her, holds the other out to keep from spilling wine down her back. He doesn't wince. She shuts her eyes, breathes. Concrete, she thinks. Dust. Wood. Welding irons. Gasoline. Soap. His hoodie tickles at her lips, and she wonders if she's getting makeup on his clothes. Frank lets out a ragged breath, and when he curls his arm tighter, Karen dares to draw her nails over the fine hair at the back of his neck.

"It's good to see you," she says aloud. She means, _I was worried_. She means, _I missed you_. She means, _I'm glad you came back_. She means it. Frank eases, under her hands, and the loss of tension has him leaning on her, muscle and heavy bone.

"Hey," he says again, into her neck. That's it. It's still more than enough.


End file.
